THE PURSUIT IN THE DARK
Already dusk was at hand. Though it was about the hour for the sun
to set, no sign of that glowing orb was visible in the sky. Dark
clouds obscured the heavens. Columns of smoke were pouring skyward
from hundreds of tall stacks along the shores of the Bay. And this
smoke, driven down again by the heavy atmosphere, added to the
general murkiness. A uniform dull, dark, gray blanket of cloud hung
low over the harbor.
Beneath, the waters of the Bay reflected this dull, dark gray. The
steel-colored hulls of the sub chasers were hardly distinguishable,
even at a few hundred yards, from the heaving gray waves. The air
was raw with the dampness of an approaching storm. The wind soughed
ominously. Somewhere out on the great ocean, a swirling storm was
sweeping landward. Night was close at hand. When darkness came, it
would be as the darkness of Egypt—dense, impenetrable, almost
tangible. It was indeed a good night for rum runners.
But the darkness had no terrors for the little party in the
_Surveyor_. Rather they welcomed it. The darkness would allow them
to creep the closer to their victims. Once they were near at hand,
the powerful little searchlight of the _Surveyor_ would dispel the
darkness. Fog alone could cloak its beams. They would hope that fog
would not form. If it did, they could only trust to luck.
On went the little fleet. Already the sub chasers were lost to
sight, though the roar of their motors was still audible. In close
formation the boats of the Collector’s squadron pushed on down the
Bay. On their right the flaming torch of Liberty flashed high above
the murky waters. Far on the western horizon myriads of twinkling
lights shone along the Jersey shore. Behind them rose the dream city
of Manhattan. From a million windows, reaching from the ground
seemingly into the clouds themselves, flashed countless electric
lights. Nowhere else in all the world was there a sight like it.
Willie almost forgot himself and the adventure on which he was
bound, as he gazed at the glowing towers of New York. When he swept
his eyes farther around the circle, he saw the lights along the
Brooklyn shore, reaching far behind and stretching far ahead of the
little fleet. The great Bay, miles in diameter, was like an ebony
bowl rimmed with glittering lights.
Steadily the little fleet pushed forward, tossed by the waving
waters. The air was rent by the shrieking whistles of many vessels.
All about them ships were moving. Behind them ferryboats were
shuttling back and forth from Jersey to the Manhattan shore. From
Staten Island to the Battery, six miles as the crow flies, the huge
municipal ferries were plowing the waves. Broad belts of light shone
from their illumined decks, carpeting the waters with gold as the
full moon might have done on a fair night. Coastwise steamers for
New England ports were rounding the end of Manhattan, for their
nightly run up the East River and the Sound. Tugs were bustling
busily about, some with strings of barges atow, some side by side
with huge lighters. In that broad arm of the Bay between Robbin’s
Reef Light and the torch of Liberty were moored numbers of tramp
steamers, each with its lights aloft. While toward Brooklyn and the
Bush terminal, sailing ships rode at anchor, their lanterns swaying
aloft as the boats rocked gently with the waves.
Fairylike, indeed, was the scene, as every moment drew the curtain
of darkness lower, and brightened the gleam of glowing lights. Yet
wickedness lurked beneath those lights, and crime all too often rode
the waves of this magic harbor. No fairy business was this before
them, and no one understood that fact better than Willie did. Not
for nothing had he listened to Larsen and his fellow smugglers on
the pier, or watched them in their South Street den. He knew them
for exactly what they were—reckless, wayward, desperate members of
society, who observed the law only when it suited them or because
they had to. Indeed this was no fairy business he was engaged in,
but a desperate hunt for desperate men.
On went the little fleet. Soon the chugging craft was abreast of
Robbin’s Reef. Its warning gleam flashed bright across the waves.
Beyond that light rose the towering shores of Staten Island, now
made dim and indistinct by the dusk, the street lights climbing
upward from the ferry along the sloping roads. Farther down the
island shone the lights of Quarantine. Beyond was darkness—the
great, abysmal darkness of the untamed sea. And somewhere out in
that darkness rode men in motor-boats—desperate men they were
seeking to catch.
Night was upon them before the little fleet had passed the forts
that guard the Narrows. Where the sub chasers were they had no idea.
Somewhere out in the dark void before them, the fleet of steel-gray
power boats was rushing through the night, with lights doused, in
search of their prey. Through the Narrows went the _Surveyor_ at top
speed, with her companion boats about her. On and on they pressed,
alert for every sight and sound of incoming craft. But no boats
passed them save one or two large steamers, the waves from which set
the little patrol boats to dancing merrily.
When they had gone as far as the chief deemed wise, Willie flashed
out an order. “Take patrol stations and keep moving.”
Across the narrow channel the little fleet spread out. Back and
forth, each in its allotted portion of the river, the little craft
moved slowly. A few hundred yards to the right they drove, then
turned and patrolled for an equal distance to the left. Back and
forth, back and forth, like sentries pacing their beats, the customs
craft crept through the murky night. But so dense was the darkness
that no one of them was visible to any of its companions. For not a
light shone aboard the little fleet.
Back and forth, back and forth, went the watching vessels. Minutes
followed minutes and became hours. The darkness increased to
absolute blackness. Far off, the lights of Manhattan began to
disappear, winking out one by one. Night settled down over the
heaving waters. The soughing of the wind increased. From seaward
came a dull moaning sound. The waves were getting up. The storm was
coming on apace. Ships were seeking refuge from it, and more than
one goodly vessel came plunging in from the sea. But the watching
patrol boats gave them a wide berth and themselves went undetected.
Always there was a possibility that some entering ship might flash a
wireless warning back through the darkness.
Back and forth, back and forth, rode the little patrol craft. And
ever Willie sat at his instrument, his earpiece strapped to his
head, listening for any sound in the night that would help the
little fleet locate its prey. Now he tuned into this wave-length,
now to that. He heard a myriad voices in the air, but for a long
time none that was of use to him. Through the heavy atmosphere
electric signals were flashing as thick as raindrops in a tropic
storm. Far out on the ocean he heard steamships talking to one
another, their operators discussing the storm that was raging there.
Commercial lines were shooting messages through the air as fast as
fingers could operate electric keys. Newspaper despatches were
boring through the clouds. Amateurs by the hundreds were filling the
ether with electric currents. More and more, as Willie listened to
the babel, he thought of rain—horizontal rain, a rain of electric
sparks that flew level with the surface of the earth. Some day, he
knew, electric messages would travel that way—straight and in one
direction only.
But ever, as he worked back and forth through the different
wave-lengths, he listened for messages of his own. Nor did he listen
in vain. Presently the _Surveyor’s_ call came crackling in his ears.
Quickly he sent the answering signal flashing back through the
darkness.
Then came the message. “Rum runners well outside of three-mile
limit. Cannot touch them. Little runners practically all ashore
before we got near. Probably had wireless warning. Believe some went
seaward. Likely heading for Long Island. Many try to enter harbor.
Running without lights. Keep close watch.”
The message was from one of the sub chasers. Willie repeated it to
his Chief. “Just as I feared,” said the Chief. “They caught nothing.
It is all the more important for us to get any boats that try to
slip into the harbor. But if we don’t catch any runners, we can at
least prevent any more from getting to the rum fleet.” And he gave
Willie a message.
“Stand by and watch rum fleet as long as possible,” flashed out
Willie. “Prevent transfer of any more booze to small boats. If sea
grows too heavy, run for nearest harbor.”
The sub chaser acknowledged the order and switched off. Once more
Willie began to comb the air for messages that might have some
bearing on the situation. Some ships might be sending a message that
would help the Chief.
Suddenly Willie’s pulse quickened. A signal that he knew as well as
he knew his own was sounding through the air.
“WNA—WNA—WNA de KWC—KWC—KWC.”
It was a call for his old friend, Roy. And the sender of the message
was his new friend, Reynolds. The _Morro Castle_ was nearing port.
The _Lycoming_ could not be far behind her. Intently Willie listened
to see if Roy caught the call. A moment there was silence. Then,
clear as a bell, came the well-known signaling of his chum.
“KWC—KWC—KWC de WNA—I—I—I.” (“Steamer _Lycoming_ answering steamer
_Morro Castle_. All right. Go ahead.”)
“_Morro Castle_ now off Sandy Hook,” said the answering message.
“Whole fleet sailing craft near Ambrose channel with no lights.
Great danger collision. Must be rum fleet. _Morro Castle_ proceeding
at half speed. Tell Captain Lansford.”
Sharp and clear came the _Morro Castle’s_ signals. Equally clear,
though not so loud, was Roy’s reply. Evidently he was a good many
miles behind the _Morro Castle_. The moment Roy finished
acknowledging the message, Willie cut loose with a sharp call.
“KWC—KWC—KWC de CBM—CBM—CBM.”
Promptly came the response. “CBM—CBM—CBM de KWC. Surprised to hear
you at this hour. Working overtime?”
“Yes, but not at the Custom-house,” flashed back Willie. “Am with
the customs fleet. We’re looking for rum runners. Heard you tell Roy
about the rum fleet off Ambrose lightship. They arrived this
afternoon. If you see any power boats, let us know which way they’re
headed. Am aboard the _Surveyor_. Her call is NQU.”
“Will ask the watch to keep sharp lookout. Will let you know if we
see any. What’s new?”
“Nothing but the rum fleet,” flashed back Willie. “Wish you’d tell
Roy you have been talking to me. Ask him to keep watch for rum
runners. How far back of you is the _Lycoming_?”
“About six hours. Will call her. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. I’ll be listening in.”
Willie laid down his head ’phone and sought his Chief, who was
snuggled down in the cockpit, wrapped in a blanket. “Just been
talking to the _Morro Castle_,” said Willie. “You know the operator.
He came to see you about me. The _Morro Castle’s_ just off the Hook
now. He says there’s a whole fleet of sailing ships there running
without lights. The _Morro Castle’s_ proceeding at half speed. Mr.
Reynolds was just warning Roy, on the _Lycoming_. I got him and
asked him to look out for rum runners. He’ll let us know if he spots
any.”
“Good for you, Willie. You always seem to do the right thing at the
right time. Maybe your message may be of great help to us.”
“I hope so,” replied Willie, as he went back to the wireless.
But for a long time no more friendly voices came hurtling through
the air. The night grew darker and rougher. The wind was rising.
From the sea the sound of the waves came ever louder. Higher rolled
the waters and the little _Surveyor_ rocked ever more violently. But
she was a seaworthy craft, and there was as yet not enough sea to
drive her to shelter. Back and forth she went, across her beat, and
back and forth went her companion ships through the murky night.
Minute followed minute. The patrol continued undisturbed. If
possible, the night grew darker and blacker. Wisps of fog began to
scud through the Narrows, driven landward by the bellowing wind. The
distant lights ashore grew dim. The mist was blotting them out. What
the Chief had feared was happening. A fog was rolling in from the
sea. But as yet it was not dense. Rather it was shifting,
evanescent. Now came a cloud of it, sweeping along before the wind.
When it passed, it left a great gulf of darkness. Soon came more
fog, to swallow up everything in its concealing embrace. Warm
garments were no protection against it. Stout coats could not bar
out the cold. The crews of the little fleet could only shiver and
wrap themselves the tighter. They could not escape the damp, numbing
chill.
With his coat collar pulled high up about his ears, and his hands
buried in his pockets, Willie sat at his instrument, listening. His
teeth were well-nigh achatter. He was shaking with cold. Little
shivers ran up and down his back. Now he would have welcomed a
chance to thrash about with his arms, to beat his limbs until the
blood was surging through them again. But he could not. His duty was
to stay by the wireless. So he sat, shivering, chilled almost to
numbness, listening for the message which, it seemed, would never
come.
Occasionally the fog lifted for a moment. At such times the watchers
could see afar off toward the sea a glow of light. It was the _Morro
Castle_, beating her way in at half speed. Then the fog curtain
would drop again, and the night become like a cave for darkness.
Suddenly Willie was startled into activity. His call was sounding in
his ear. Reynolds was trying to get him. Willie threw over his
switch. “Steamer _Morro Castle_. _Surveyor_ answering,” he flashed.
“All right. Go ahead.”
“Four power boats just passed us making for the Narrows,” came the
message. “Appear to be rum runners. We are two or three miles
outside the Narrows.”
“Thanks,” answered Willie. “We’ll be on the watch. Good-bye.”
Then he snatched his ’phone piece from his ear and sought the Chief.
“_Morro Castle_ just telegraphed that four rum running power boats
had passed her, heading for the Narrows. The _Morro Castle_ is three
or four miles out.”
The Chief sprang to his feet. “Call the other boats,” he said. “Tell
them to watch sharp. Tell them to wait until the rum runners come
close, then spot them with their flashlights and order them to stop.
Use rifles, if necessary.”
Willie stepped to his instrument and flashed the fleet call.
Instantly the other boats responded. But it was needless to pass on
the order. The other operators had likewise caught the _Morro
Castle’s_ message to the _Surveyor_, and the patrol boats were on
the alert.
Now they quickened their speed. Back and forth they went across the
tumbling waters. Now the fog lifted for a moment, but nothing was
visible save the dull, distant glow of the _Morro Castle’s_ lights.
Then the fog curtain fell again, blanketing everything. The wind
blew in short, sharp blasts. The waves were beating on the shore and
breaking with a never ceasing tumult of sound. Aboard the little
fleet every ear was alert to catch the sound of motors, every eye
was straining into the dark to single out some slightest gleam of
light, some chance reflection that would betray the presence of the
smugglers. Occasionally there was a lull in the wind. Once the roar
of a motor was distinctly heard. It seemed to be close to the
eastern shore. Then the sound was swallowed up in the tumult of the
waves.
The _Surveyor_ was stationed at the easternmost end of the patrol
line. If the sound had been heard aright, the little boat must be
directly in the path of the speeding power boats.
The Chief stepped to Willie’s side. “Never mind your wireless now,”
he said. “Come here and listen. We need your trained ear outside. We
thought we heard the beating of a motor.”
Willie threw down his head ’phone and stepped outside. At first he
was deafened by the tumult of wind and water. His head ’phones had
shut out much of the roar. In a few moments he became accustomed to
the noise. He cupped his hand to his ear, held his breath and
listened with all his might. But he could hear nothing save the
tempest. Then the fog shut down again—a great, gray, blinding
blanket of mist, that hid even the very waters alongside.
“Listen!” cautioned Willie.
He knew the carrying powers of fog. For a moment nothing was audible
but the wind and wave. Then distinctly came the muffled roar of a
motor. For a full five seconds it sounded. Then it was audible no
longer.
“It sounds as though it were close to this shore,” said Willie to
his Chief. He had almost to shout to make himself heard.
“Just what I thought,” said the Chief.
“You can’t be sure, though,” said Willie. “Fog plays strange tricks
with sound.”
Wherever the rum runner was, it was evident that she was not far
away. Certainly she was within half a mile. Probably she was nearer.
Once more the fog lifted. Through the rift in the mist Willie made
out some lights high in air. They were the lights of Quarantine.
“We’ve drifted clear into the Narrows,” he called in his Chief’s
ear. “We’re at the very narrowest part of the river.”
“Good!” said the Chief. “Look!”
Far down the Narrows, and close to the western shore, there was a
momentary gleam of light through the rift in the mist, as though a
smoker were holding a match to his pipe in his cupped hands. Then
the light was swallowed up in darkness.
“We were wrong about the sound of that motor,” said the Chief. “They
must be slipping along the western shore. We must head them off.
Call the other boats quick!” The Chief turned to the steersman.
“Hard about!” he called.
“Wait!” cried Willie. “That might be a light ashore. Or they might
be trying to fool us. It isn’t likely they would come up the west
bank. They’d surely meet boats anchored off Quarantine. And I’m
certain the motor we heard was on this side of the river.”
“Never mind,” called the Chief to the steersman. “Keep her steady.”
“Hold your message, Willie. Let each boat keep her place in line and
close in if a rum runner is discovered.”
Willie stepped to his instrument. But before he could clamp his head
’phones on, the roar of motors came loud and distinct. This time
there could be no mistake. The sounds were on the east side of the
river, and there was more than one motor exploding.
“They’re coming along this bank,” shouted Willie. “I hear several
motors.”
“Call in the fleet,” shouted back the Chief. Willie flashed out the
order. “Close in toward the east bank.”
Instantly each boat replied. The _Surveyor_ quickened her pace and
headed farther inshore. With straining eyes her crew stared into the
dark. The Chief swept the surface of the tossing waters with a
powerful night glass. Suddenly a cry burst from his lips.
“I see them. They’re close ashore and coming like the wind. Crowd on
all speed. We must cut them off. Man your searchlight.”
Plainer and plainer came the roar of the speeding rum runners. “Dead
ahead,” called the Chief to the steersman. “If we’re fast enough
we’ll cut them off. Turn on your searchlight, a little off the
starboard bow.”
Suddenly a dazzling beam of light shot across the waves. A moment it
swept back and forth across the foaming water. Then it came to rest.
Three power boats in close formation were tearing through the
surging seas.
“Where’s the fourth?” cried Willie.
“Port your helm,” ordered the Chief, “or they will get by us.”
With every ounce of power they possessed, the roaring rum runners
were striving to pass the Surveyor. At full speed the little patrol
boat was cutting for shore to head them off. Closer and closer to
the shore line ventured the speeding smugglers.
“Gad!” cried the Chief. “In another minute we’ll run them ashore.”
The distance was greater than he judged. In another minute the
foremost rum runner was passing the _Surveyor’s_ bow like a race
horse. Her companions were close to her flanks. Not a dozen yards
separated the flying smugglers from the shore, but it was enough,
for the tide was at flood. The _Surveyor_ was still half a cable’s
length away.
“They are going to make it,” shouted the Chief. “Get your guns.”
He grabbed up a megaphone. “Stop!” he roared. “Or we’ll fire.”
The response was a shot from the foremost rum runner.
“Down!” cried the Chief. “Shoot and shoot to hit.”
The crew sank to the deck and whipping out their weapons, opened
fire. A shot must have gone true, for the leading rum runner
faltered, swerved from her course, and was almost run down by a
sister boat. The fleeing fleet was thrown into confusion.
“We’re going to get them,” shouted the Chief, firing as fast as he
could aim.
For a moment the rum runners fell off in speed. The _Surveyor_
gained on them fast. “Stop!” again shouted the Chief. “In the name
of the law, stop!”
In reply a burly fellow stepped to the side of the foremost rum
runner, raised a rifle, aimed carefully, and fired. There was a
crash overhead and the Surveyor’s searchlight winked out. Again the
rum runners’ motors roared and the fleet power boats drew away from
the pursuing squadron. The _Surveyor_ swung in pursuit. At the same
moment another power boat was heard roaring up the channel, close to
the western shore.
“A ruse!” cried the Chief. “They tried to fool us. Three of them
came up the eastern shore while a fourth came along the other side
and made a light to draw us across the river. If we had gone, I
suppose she would have joined the three on this side. But they got
through, though they didn’t fool us. Our watch was in vain.”
“Don’t say that,” replied Willie. “We’re going to get them yet.”
“How?” said the Chief. “In a night like this? They can run rings
around us.”
“Listen!” said Willie. “Did you see that fellow who shot our light
out?”
“Sure I saw him.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, I do. He had on a red necktie. I caught a flash of it as he
leveled his gun. I couldn’t see his face well for his cap was pulled
down and he was too far away. But I saw the red at his neck. That’s
‘Red’ Anderson. I know where he hangs out and I’ll bet a dollar I
know where he’s heading for.”
“Where?” said the Chief.
“The barge pier on the East River. That’s his hangout. It would be
the easiest place in the world for him to land a cargo, for all
those bargemen work together.”
The Chief turned to the man at the helm. “Full speed for the
Battery,” he ordered. “We’ll land there and cut across to the barge
pier. Then the fleet can sail up the East River and take these
fellows in the rear while we approach from the land side. We’ll get
them yet—providing Willie is right. Break out your lights. It’s too
dangerous to run dark on a night like this.”
The lights of the _Surveyor_ blazed forth. The Chief turned to
Willie. “Call up the fleet,” he said, “and order them to the Battery
landing at top speed.”
A moment later the little fleet was surging through the boisterous
waters, their lights now agleam, in a final effort to take the
smugglers. At the Battery landing the force divided. Half of the men
leaped ashore. The others stayed aboard to man the little fleet.
Signals were arranged.
“We’ll try to watch you from shore,” said the Chief, “and descend on
that pier at the same moment that you reach the slip. Remember,
they’re a desperate bunch. If there’s to be any shooting, you shoot
first.”
Along the sea wall, and past the barge office and the ferry
buildings, the land force ran at speed, glad of an opportunity to
warm their chilled bodies. Then they began to pick their way along
South Street. Wherever it was possible, they slipped out on a pier
to keep in touch with the little fleet. The boats were shooting up
the East River at top speed, close to the ends of the piers.
Carefully they kept in touch with the boats until all were near the
barge pier. Then the Special Agent gathered his little force for the
charge.
“Get your guns ready,” he said, “though you needn’t draw them until
we are out on the pier. There may be nothing there at all. We don’t
want to attract attention and we don’t want to look foolish.”
Rapidly the little group strode up the street. At the barge pier
they paused a second to look and listen. The pier was dark and
apparently unoccupied. Yet from the river end came muffled noises
and subdued voices.
“Come on,” whispered the Chief. “Something’s doing there. Get your
guns ready.”
They stepped lightly out on the pier. At first they could see
nothing. Then they made out great piles of freight heaped across the
pier. Something was afoot behind these freight piles, but what it
was they could not tell. The attackers crept nearer. They came close
to the piles of freight and peered past them. Motor trucks were
standing on the end of the pier. The freight had been piled so as to
conceal the end of the pier; but room had been left for the trucks
to slip through. Already one truck was piled high with cases of
smuggled whiskey. Men were passing other cases up to the pier from
motor-boats, and still others were loading the cases on the trucks.
A coarse laugh broke the stillness. With an oath a rough voice said,
“You sure fixed that light, Red. Them shrimps thought they was goin’
to ketch us.” And the speaker gave a loud guffaw.
At that very instant the lights of the little fleet appeared off the
pier. “Now,” said the Chief, leaping forward. “Come on.”
The customs guards leaped from concealment and swept round the
freight piles.
“Hands up!” cried the Chief, “and no monkey business. We’ll drill
the first man that tries to draw a gun.”
A cry went up. Savage oaths burst forth. The smugglers in the dock
were trying to start their motors.
“None of that!” ordered the Chief. “Stop it or I’ll fire!”
The patrol fleet from the river turned and drove into the slip. The
Chief hailed them. “Arrest every man in those boats,” he ordered.
“Handcuff them at once. Shoot at the first attempt to resist.”
Taken thoroughly by surprise, the smugglers could offer no real
resistance. “Come on,” said the Chief. “We’re going to the Old Slip
station. March.”
He posted guards on each side of the captured smugglers and others
behind them. Then he turned back toward the motor-boats. Already the
crews had been handcuffed. They were helped to the pier and marched
off after their companions.
“Get the rest of that stuff out of those boats and in these trucks,”
ordered the Chief, “and watch it closely. I’ll have some department
drivers down here as quick as I can get them, to take the stuff
away. Be sure you stay with the loads until they are under lock and
key.”